


because i liked you better

by seungminnies



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: ...no happy ending, Angst, M/M, inspired by a. e. housman the sad gay poet who had an unrequited love for his roommate, i’m just ... feeling sad so i wrote this, like I’m warning you it is just sad, literally no fluff, uhhh if you’re looking for something happy don’t click this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23532646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seungminnies/pseuds/seungminnies
Summary: jisung is a fool, he knows.jisung was a fool, minho thinks.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han & Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	because i liked you better

**Author's Note:**

> this is the First time i’ve written anything sad pls be nice 2 me
> 
> also the poem is “Because I liked you better” by a. e. housman!!! i rly rly like his poetry. would recommend

PHASE ONE

Because I liked you better

Than suits a man to say,

It irked you, and I promised

To throw the thought away.

To put the world between us

We parted, stiff and dry;

`Good-bye,' said you, `forget me.'

`I will, no fear', said I.

* * *

It’s happening again. It’s too often—he’s aware—but how can he help it when this feeling has been crawling around the depths of his conscience for years? There when he wakes up, there as he eats, there when he attends class, there before he goes to bed. His hands freeze up and his heart runs a bit faster than usual. The tingling in his gut is a sensation he’s all too familiar with, perpetual even when the object of his affections isn’t around (albeit this circumstance is rare). _This can’t be normal,_ he always thinks to himself, head in his hands and foot incessantly tapping. _I don’t think anyone has ever liked anyone as much as I do to him._ _And he knows, too. He must._

  
☼  
  


“Jisung-ah,” Minho singsongs as the door shuts behind him. “I’m home. It’s kinda chilly outside.” He unfurls his knit scarf, gently laying it and his jacket on the back of a chair at the dining table. It’s still too early, at least in Jisung’s world, because it’s barely eleven in the morning when Minho returns from his morning class. The birds outside sing their happy Friday song, the one weekday Jisung leaves completely to himself while his flat-mate rises way too early. 

He hums from where he sits curled on the couch under a blanket, book in hand and television playing uselessly as white noise. “How was class?” He looks up just as Minho ungracefully jumps on the couch, immediately lifting the blanket where it rests under Jisung’s legs and covers his own with it. It is a nice sensation, having Minho next to him as if maybe—in some otherworldly universe—he would be his. But Jisung knows better. 

“Alright. Not too boring today, actually.” Minho pauses to giggle. “We talked about how having something perpetually in the back of your mind—like a love interest—can affect the human psyche and how decisions are made. So many of us couldn’t relate, but it was so fascinating to talk about.” Minho shifts under the blanket, knocking into Jisung’s knees and sticking his tongue in return to Jisung’s disgruntled expression.

“Life must be so boring without a love interest,” he remarks.

It’s quiet. Then suddenly, Minho smiles, a soft thing, as if taking pity on Jisung. He hates it, but doesn’t let it show. The truth is, Jisung is so accustomed to having to hide the lack of breath in his throat and the shakiness of his vocal cords; these are things that Jisung has mastered over the years, just to keep his face void of emotion. “Jisung-ah, life doesn’t have to revolve around having a love interest. There are so many wonderful things you can explore with the freedom you have, so many wonderful sights to see and things to experience.” As he says all of this, a somewhat dreamy look settles on his face. 

Minho has always been too free of a spirit, never able to be tied down by man or woman no matter how much effort was given. There’s a quote he absolutely adores; “I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man.” If you flip through the pages of his copy of “Little Women,” there is a bright pink sticky note on the page where Jo March declares her independence, not to mention the various highlights and underlines on that very quote. Jisung nods—as if he understands, as if his love interest is not the very thing that slowly chips away at himself, day by day and minute by minute. 

Besides, Jisung knows Minho well enough. He knows that this is his _I love you, but I’m not interested_ . It never shuts off his feelings, because Minho has tried this too many times to count. So many times that Jisung doesn’t even bother getting his hopes up when he invites Minho to hang out. The answer is always the same. Minho will think for a few seconds, because he is too kind to lead anyone on yet too kind to turn down an invitation. And then he will slowly shake his head with an apologetic smile on his face. _“I’m sorry,”_ he’ll say. _“I’ve got a project to finish up before midnight tomorrow.”_ But it’s alright; it really is. He always has a backup hangout-buddy before inviting Minho anywhere. 

Maybe that’s what hurts the most. Minho cares about him so much, Jisung knows, but it has never been on the same wavelength that Jisung cares from. Minho has this friendship buried in the deepest trench in his heart, and it will never wiggle its way out. If Jisung doesn’t extend an invitation, Minho’s mind grabs a shovel and begins digging. 

The pain of unending turned-down-invitations will always be worth the friendship. If Jisung can’t have the romance, he’ll take what he can get.

☼

It’s another one of those _he has to know_ moments, where Jisung just can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Minho’s face. There’s nothing significantly different—at least Jisung doesn’t think so—but the way the sunlight makes his eyes a caramel color while the blinds cast lines of shadows across his face makes Jisung feel so calm. He remains motionless for so long, occasionally glancing down to the book in his lap, if only to prevent Minho from becoming too suspicious. 

His plan works for about three minutes.

“Jisung-ah.” Minho sets his pen down, stretching his arms above his head. The shadow lines dance across his shirt. “Are you alright?” 

After years of patching the cracks, maybe this is when the dam breaks. 

“I’m fine, hyung. Just—just having trouble focusing. That’s all.” His voice disappears into a whisper. Just from his tone, Minho knows what is about to happen. He uses the last drops of his energy to hold the dam together.

“My face is that easy to focus on, huh?” Minho makes sure to overflow his voice with sarcasm, almost annoyingly so. 

A brick in the foundation begins to slip. “Yeah, cause it’s ugly,” Jisung fights back, but there’s no fight in his voice. A bit more crumbling, a bit more sliding. 

“Hah. I know.” And then Minho grimaces, and it’s not because of the jab at his face. 

It’s like an avalanche, the torrential water and brick crashing and crashing over itself when the pressure is finally too much. “Hyung, you know what I’m going to say.” Minho takes a deep breath. Jisung counts to ten. He could stop, right now. He could apologize for being so fidgety and walk away. He could do what he’s been doing ever since he met Minho, running away from his feelings until his hands are on his knees and he’s panting for breath. Jisung’s a bit tired of running away.

He continues. “ _You_ have been my love interest for too long now, and you know it, and I’m sorry that I let it get in the way. Of everything.” Jisung’s insides sort of feel like an avalanche, too. “I never meant for it to happen, of course, I really didn’t. And—And I promise, I’m going to stop now. Not loving you, of course. But I’ll stop staring at you, I’ll stop inviting you to coffee shops and I’ll stop bothering you with all of my texts. I know it made you uncomfortable, so I’ll stop it all.” He finally looks up. Minho’s not looking at him. “Yeah. Uh, I’m sorry.” And he really can’t find a lamer ending to finish his sob soliloquy, so he forces himself up and shuts the door as gently as he can behind him. 

  
☼  
  


Something has been off for weeks. 

This was to be expected, of course, with Jisung’s _I’m sorry_ floating through the apartment, hitting Minho at every turned corner. 

Minho paces back and forth, doing his best to convince himself that the moment was inevitable. He takes a seat on the couch, rests his head in his hands, and mumbles over and over to himself, _stupid, stupid, stupid._ He doesn’t hear Jisung crack the door to his room open to peek his head out, only to retreat. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

☼

They almost never interact. Minho always tries to, throws a small smile towards Jisung before they leave for their classes. But Jisung can’t return it. He doesn’t want pity.

  
☼  
  


It only gets worse. Jisung can’t believe he was so naive, so dumb to the ways of the world. Feelings don’t disappear. Not when they’re this real.

The worst part is this: Jisung can’t even bring himself to blame Minho. Everything is his own fault, and they’re both aware of this. (Minho’s too nice for his own good.) Everything is his own fault, and he’s not even taking steps to remediate the tension—now as solid as a brick—that developed between them. 

  
☼  
  


Jisung pads into the kitchen one morning to find it… empty. The microwave is still there. The refrigerador hums away, collecting dust. The chairs are there, the table is there, the rug is there. But it’s empty. It was almost as if he had never had a roommate, as if Minho had never existed. 

Jisung stands completely still. Everything in the room is completely still. The curtains aren’t even fluttering because the window isn’t cracked. It isn’t cracked because Jisung always goodnaturedly complained about the cold air even though that’s how Minho always liked it—no matter the temperature reading—and because of course Minho managed to catch even the most miniscule of details before he left. 

There’s a piece of paper on the kitchen counter, top edge perfectly ripped and Jisung just _knows_ Minho folded along the perforated line both ways before removing it from his legal pad. It’s written in perfectly neat and tiny Minho-left-handed-handwriting, and Jisung’s heart aches. Somewhere along the way he reads a _Sorry for making things awkward._ There’s a _I’ll pay the rent for the next month._ He sees a _new roommate,_ a _moving in on Thursday at around 2 pm,_ a _He’s my friend Changbin that I talk about a lot._ _You guys will get along well._

_We’ll see each other again sometime, yeah?_

Jisung rushes to get himself a glass of water. He yanks open the fridge, desperate for anything, _anything_ , to calm the torrent in his stomach. It’s full of his favorite snacks and the torrent only worsens.

  
☼  
  


After Changbin moves in, Jisung crushes the paper within his palm and tosses it in the recycling, because he’s Jisung and he doesn’t cry over boys and no one will ever see the ugly watery splotches ruining Minho’s perfect handwriting except for him. 

Minho was right. He and Changbin get along well. So well that sometimes, Jisung manages to forget he ever shared the apartment with anyone else.

* * *

PHASE TWO

Because I liked you better

Than suits a man to say,

It irked you, and I promised

To throw the thought away.

To put the world between us

We parted, stiff and dry;

`Good-bye,' said you, `forget me.'

`I will, no fear', said I.

If here, where clover whitens

The dead man's knoll, you pass,

And no tall flower to meet you

Starts in the trefoiled grass,

Halt by the headstone naming

The heart no longer stirred,

And say the lad that loved you

Was one that kept his word.

* * *

He didn’t deserve to leave like this.

Of course, no human does. Minho knows this. But Jisung was never capable of doing anything wrong. 

The boy who was only filled with sunshine and warmth and _gold_ but Minho could never love him the same way he did. And it makes his heart wrench in all of the worst ways because Jisung was always his best _friend_ , his roommate he could always count on during every hour of the day. His roommate that dozens of people counted on. Minho curses the inebriated man who shouldn’t have been out that late at night, shouldn’t have behind the wheel, shouldn’t have sped through the light—  
  


☼

Because he is a weak man, Minho visits Changbin at the apartment as soon as he hears the news. The sound of his knocks echoes down the desolate hallway, and Changbin pulls the door open. They don’t acknowledge each other. Not yet, at least, while death is still pressing down on the apartment floor. 

Cardboard boxes are strewn all across the floor, labelled with Changbin’s chicken scratch. _Jisung’s music things. Jisung’s school things. Jisung’s clothes_.

“I’m taking them back to his family later today,” comes Changbin’s voice from behind Minho’s shoulder, the first words either of them have spoken. Minho is completely frozen, afraid to speak lest his throat make no sound. He takes three deep breaths before crouching down, opening the clothing box. Right on top lies Jisung’s favorite sweatshirt, the “ugly puke green thing,” as Jisung liked to call it, that Minho had gifted him for his twentieth birthday. 

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Minho asks, but it isn’t a question.

“No, no, no no no,” Changbin splutters, joining him on the floor. “It was no one’s fault but the man’s, and you know this.” He puts his hands on Minho’s shoulders in some attempt to bring him back down to Earth.

“But—”

“There’s no use overthinking things. Will you help me unload these at the Han’s?”

Minho frowns. Changbin could easily deliver this all on his own. But he goes with; he knows that Mr. and Mrs. Han are expecting a visit from him. It’s too bad that he plasters on fake polite smiles the entire visit.

  
☼  
  


Minho clutches onto the bouquet—sweet peas, Jisung’s favorite— in his left hand, fiddling with his ring with his right. It’s almost a bit surreal to be standing here, looking down at the yellowing and dried up grass scattered around the headstone. _HAN JISUNG,_ it says, almost mocking him. _2000-2022._ The wind is biting, too harsh for early fall. Today marks the first anniversary of Jisung’s messy confession since his passing. Minho takes a deep breath and sniffles. His right hand wipes his messy tears away. Jisung would hate to see him like this.

_“Smile, hyung,”_ he would say. _“I kept my promise, didn’t I? You turned out okay, didn’t you? We both turned out okay.”_

_“I suppose you did keep your promise. But I don’t think either of us turned out okay, Jisungie,”_ Minho would say back, except—

He sets the flowers down.

—except there’s no one to say it to. 

**Author's Note:**

> haha sorry
> 
> yeah i’ve been mia for like 7000 years and am aware that my other series isn’t finished but i promise i’m working on it
> 
> no promises when it’ll be finished tho :P


End file.
